Everything of Importance
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: John shot the wall too, but it wasn't because he was bored. In which John shoots the wall and won't tell Sherlock the reason. To the detective, it's just another mystery to solve.


A/N: I think this came out a bit more angsty than I would have liked, but that's alright. It can be read as pre-slash I believe. The words in italics are Sherlock's thoughts. (also as an update I changed my username to stripeyjumpers, originally prodigyofnothing)

* * *

Sherlock stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he stared daggers at the innocent, button-down clad John Watson that sat in his trusted maroon armchair.

"Tell me where they are." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the doctor for a moment.

"No." John said simply, staring back with similar intensity.

"John,"

"No, Sherlock. No."

Sherlock scrunched his face in disapproval but still kept the intense staring contest going.

"John, I _need_ a stimulant I need—"

"No." he shook his head.

The detective stood up a little taller, sighed and buttoned his blazer casually.

"Fine," he said, looking at John with a new, different gleam in his eyes.

_Comfortable sitting position, at ease, no tension around the eyes: cigarettes are not in this room._

_Hasn't glanced at the kitchen, or at the door, keeping his gaze on me: definitely not on this floor._

_Narrowing his eyes at me—_

Sherlock walked a little closer.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"Not telling you." John reassured, beginning to look eager to get back to his book.

"Well they're certainly not on this floor."

"Stop it." John snapped.

"Ah, so I was right. Thank you." Sherlock smiled. Then quickly, ever so subtly, John looked up and to the left.

_Looking up, by the door. Upstairs: his room. _

"The cigarettes are in your room." Sherlock concluded.

_Eyes widening, almost in a panic—_

"No, cut it out. We talked about this!" John snapped.

_Voice raised, eyes wide, leaning forward in his chair as if to get up and stop me._

Sherlock grinned almost wickedly.

"And there's something in your room you don't want me to see." He announced.

At this John put his book down and stood up abruptly, standing in Sherlock's way.

"I'm serious, stop—"

But the detective only grinned wider in excitement at the new mystery and bounded away and up the stairs to John's bedroom.

* * *

When Sherlock entered the small, sparsely decorated room, the first thing he laid his curious eyes on was the bed. On top of John's cream-colored, slightly tousled sheets were a collection of various ephemera from his military days.

By the pillows sat a small box that contained photographs that were now scattered across the duvet. They were glossy, four by six photos with accidental fingers ending up in shots and lens flares to spare. Beside the photos lay a silver chain with John's chipped and somewhat scratched dog tags.

Sherlock only glanced over these small things before laying his eyes on John's pistol which sat comfortably next to the rest of the items. Then towards the end of the bed, laid out horizontally and pressed clean was John's old uniform.

It only took a matter of seconds to observe all this and before Sherlock could even blink he heard the frustrated pounding of John's footsteps up the stairs.

"I see you've been reminiscing." Sherlock drawled before John could mutter a complaint.

"Sherlock, get out of my room." He said sternly.

"Oh, here we are," the detective said as he reached for a fairly crumpled up piece of printer paper and scanned the page for a moment,

"This is an invitation to a small get-together some of your army mates are having but going by the date printed on this sheet and the fact that it's somewhat worse for wear I'd say you're not planning on going. So why all of the memorabilia?" he asked.

"Look," John said, stepping in the room a little further, "I knew I wasn't gonna go, but I started mulling it over this morning anyway. Ended up taking out some of my old things, got a bit caught up in it is all."

"Hm." Sherlock hummed, now eyeing the uniform spread out on the bed.

_Military fatigues_

_Condition: worn_

_Various rips and tears_

_Fading at the knees and elbows_

_Bullet hole in front left shoulder and—_

Sherlock slowly lifted the piece of clothing, examining the backside of the shoulder.

_the back. _

John sighed. "Before you ask," he said, "yes it went out the back and no you can't see the scar."

"But John—"

"I said no." the doctor scolded like a strict mother.

The detective pouted like a child and turned his attention to the pistol instead.

_Gun: Browning_

_British Army L9A1 _

_Standard issue sidearm_

_Black _

_Currently: loaded_

_Safety: off _

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and picked up the gun carefully. John tensed.

"Why's the safety off on your gun, John?"

"I'll tell you where the cigarettes are, alright?"

The taller man only smirked. "Oh, but this is so much more _interesting_,"

"No, look, I know you're desperate for a case but this is _my room_ not a crime scene now quit being a nosy prat and go melt eyeballs in the microwave or something."

Sherlock ignored him and instead checked how many bullets were in the gun.

"And it's missing a bullet." He said, looking to John expectantly.

"What? Oh, yeah, from the last case remember?"

"You were very ready to shoot our suspect but you never actually did. Now, Mrs. Hudson and I were both absent from the flat just two days ago which would be the only time you could fire at anything in this area without my knowing but what would you shoot why would you—"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Suddenly the taller man put the gun down, looked up and began to scan the room as if it were a crime scene, looking for anything that might appear out of place. He squinted his eyes and rushed over to John's small desk that sat against the dull forest green walls. He looked at the hardwood floors, and over to the wooden dresser that stood next to the desk. His eyes then went up to the mirror that hung above the dresser.

"You've moved everything on this wall about three inches to the left." He stated.

"How could you _possibly_—"

"The scuffs on the floors," Sherlock pointed to one of the legs of the desk, "they weren't there before and they're recent, evidence of that desk being moved over, possibly in a hurry." He walked over to the dresser.

"Then there's your dresser. Dust, John. Dust can tell you a lot of things. There's a thin layer of dust on the top here but on both sides there are clear handprints that indicate someone taking it and dragging it over." He looked up at the mirror,

"And this is an easy one, there's a nail hole where this mirror originally was, about three inches away from where it is now. So," he smirked, "what reason would someone move furniture other than to hide something," he put his hands to the side of the dresser and started to move it to the right.

"Sherlock, cut it out alright?"

But it was too late, and the detective had already moved the furniture to successfully reveal a bullet hole staring him right back in the face. He grinned like an excited schoolboy.

"Oh John, this is _brilliant_, just beautiful." He admired the damage as if it were a clever decoration.

"It's—I'm sorry what?" John asked, a little of the tension leaving his face.

"I knew you'd get bored. I knew eventually the menial hum drum of normalcy would no longer suffice. I daresay I'm proud of you John Watson."

John smiled a bit. "Um, yeah, great. Now if I give you your blasted cigarettes will you get out of my room?"

Sherlock already began to head for the door, shaking his head slightly. "Oh no, this has proved to be _much_ more intriguing than the pack of cigarettes that is clearly resting in that hollowed out book on your nightstand."

"_How_ can you even—"

But the detective was already out the door.

* * *

It was a little later in the day, and the grey light from outside the windows illuminated the consulting detective and his blogger as they sat in their respective chairs and pretended to read novels. Sherlock was glancing up at John nearly every two minutes, and John noticed, as he glanced up at Sherlock right afterwards. After only a few minutes it was obvious that Sherlock was looking at John's left shoulder rather than his face. John sighed and put his book away.

"I already said no." He told the detective.

"You what?"

"Oh don't give me that, you're not the only one who notices things I can see you looking at my shoulder every five seconds."

"John I—"

"Why would you even _want_ to see it?"

Sherlock closed his book and sat up a little straighter.

"I've looked at countless scars on corpses, trying to research them, catalogue them but it's not the same never the same as the scars on actual living flesh which, unfortunately, many people try as hard as they possibly can to hide."

"Hm, wonder why." John said.

"John, please, I've been trying to make a study about scars and—"

"What, like your tobacco ash thing?"

"Yes and I—"

"No, Sherlock, just, no." John said, shaking his head.

"Five minutes." Sherlock stated, raising an eyebrow.

"Hm?"

"Five minutes. Give me five minutes to observe that's all I need. Possibly less. Please John; this boredom is _rotting_ my brain from the inside out."

John pursed his lips and thought for a moment, then got up out of his chair and stretched his limbs. He pointed to the stairs.

"Go on, go." He motioned.

"What?" the detective asked, standing up to mimic John.

"Upstairs. I'm not gonna have Mrs. Hudson walking in on you looming over me with my shirt half off."

Sherlock was up the stairs before John could finish rolling his eyes.

When John got into the room, he moved all of his military things out of the way to make a spot for himself to sit down on the bed. He plopped down and started to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock only continued observing the room as John pulled his left arm out of his sleeve and awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Ah, right," Sherlock mumbled, and immediately took his pocket magnifier to John's shoulder.

For what seemed like an incredibly long time Sherlock was very quiet as he studied the doctor's scarred skin. Just the two of their breaths mingling in the tense air was the only noise in the room.

"Hm." Sherlock grunted.

"What? What is it?" John whispered quickly.

"You got an infection." He stated, still observing the unique scar pattern.

"Oh, yeah. Nasty experience, that was."

"I can imagine."

"No you can't."

For a split second, Sherlock looked up at John and locked his steely blue gaze onto the doctor's sad hazel eyes. He quickly returned to his observations. It was just another moment of before his deep raspy voice broke the silence.

"Why did you shoot the wall, John?" He asked slowly.

John closed his eyes and tried not to jerk his shoulder away violently.

"Sherlock, don't."

"Right. Apologies."

"You're not going to stop asking though, are you?"

"I may stop asking, but I will not stop wondering."

John laughed bitterly.

"Sherlock, you're breathing on my neck." He complained.

"Well unfortunately for you your neck is in rather close proximity to your shoulder." Sherlock said, turning his attention to the exit wound on John's back.

"Yes, but you could have just a bit more respect for personal space, in general I mean."

"John you moved in with me you have no personal space."

John laughed, genuinely that time.

* * *

Later that day, after the sun had turned in and darkness took over, Sherlock and John were sat comfortably on the floor of the sitting room, sorting through old files and solved cold cases that were lying around.

"I can't believe you let this stuff pile up like this," John muttered to himself as he sifted through another stack of papers.

"Yes well if I organized it all in a timely manner then I wouldn't have the coveted opportunity of sitting here and bonding with my flatmate."

"Very funny," John said.

The fire was cackling quietly in the background along with the sounds of shifting papers and long-winded sighs. Sherlock looked up at John, sitting cross-legged and focused. He bit his lip and cleared his throat.

"Why can't you just tell me, John?" he asked.

John stopped his organizing and ran a hand over his face. "Really? You're still on about that? So I shot the bloody wall, so what? So did you."

"True but I did it out of complete mind numbing boredom and although I suspected that was your reasoning at first glance I'd hardly imagine you would go to such lengths due to a drought in activity. You're also being particularly defensive." Sherlock stated flatly.

"I am not defensive how am I—"

"My point exactly. You keep skirting around the subject like you did with your scar, although that you did let me see. But now you want to keep this from me and it makes me wonder what could possibly be more deep and personal than a bullet wound to the shoulder?"

For a long while, John didn't say a word. He didn't even look at Sherlock; instead he just continued to sort through files. Sherlock could tell he was thinking something over in his head and eventually he stopping sorting and looked up at the detective.

"How about this," he started, "I won't tell you why I shot the wall, but I'll give you free range to go into my room, look me up and down, do whatever it is you have to do, and deduce it yourself."

"And you'll tell me if I get it right?"

"Of course." John answered confidently.

Sherlock grinned like a child in a sweets shop and dropped all the papers he was going through. He shot up and headed straight to John's bedroom.

* * *

Once in the room, Sherlock flicked on the small lamp and immediately started cataloging things.

_John's bed:_

_Queen-sized_

_Military ephemera no longer here_

_Big enough for two, sleeps on the left side, used to leaving room for a partner_

_Only one pillow out of four has been used—_

Sherlock moved closer and squinted at the pillow, noticing tiny dark stains splotched towards the middle. He felt the material, sniffed at the spots and put them under his magnifier.

_Gun oil on the pillow_

_Gun oil?_

_Maintains his gun while sitting in bed, not a good idea for keeping clean fabrics_

He sat down where he assumed John would have been sitting when he was cleaning his gun, right by the pillow, which was also only a few meters away from the bullet-sized hole in the wall.

_Shot the wall after cleaning his gun_

_But why? _

Sherlock sat on the mattress and thought for a moment with his hands resting beneath his chin.

_The invitation for the army gathering came three days ago_

_The flat was vacant two days ago: Friday_

_John didn't look at the mail until Friday_

_John cleans his gun when he's stressed, a habit, a compulsion, even when it's not needed_

_Conclusion: being reminded of his service triggered a negative response, John went to clean his gun out of habit and became angry at the memories he was conjuring up and decided to take it out on the wall_

Sherlock clapped his hands together victoriously and headed back downstairs.

* * *

John just stared up at Sherlock with a smug grin at the counter after the detective explained his conclusions.

"Good deduction, that." He said, drying his hands and padding back to the sitting room.

Sherlock swiveled, glaring at the back of the doctor's head.

"_Good?_" he asked.

John turned before sitting in his chair. "Good try."

Now the taller man strode into the room and stood before John with a furrowed brow.

"_Good try?_" he parroted.

"Yes, Sherlock. 'Good try' as in, you got it wrong." John smiled to himself and opened up the novel he'd been trying to read earlier.

"Not possible." Sherlock stated as he plopped down into his chair.

"Not probable, but not impossible." John reasoned.

"What did I get wrong? What did I miss?" he asked desperately.

"Same as usual," John said slowly, getting up and taking his book with him, "everything of importance." He smiled quickly one last time before setting off towards his room. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"No, John! That's my line! John!" Sherlock called after him, but he was swiftly ignored.

* * *

It must have been about two in the morning, Sherlock figured, when jerked awake on the sofa. All of the lights were out and his hands rested limply on his chest, having fallen from the original position of being steepled under his chin. He had been going over in his head all of his observations from John's room and what he could have missed. Without a proper case, it was the only mystery keeping his mind going. He sneered at the fact that he'd fallen asleep in the middle of thinking, but decided that continuing his thought process now was as good a time as any.

Sherlock folded his hands up again and stared at the ceiling, just about ready to return to his mind palace, when a small thud from John's room snapped him out of his musings. He listened closer, and could almost hear a faint whimpering sound.

_John_

_Moving around in bed_

_Pained noises_

_Nightmare_

He scowled at the thought, that things like sentiment could creep up on oneself even in sleep. He knew that John would continue to toss and turn, and possibly yell, and it was going to prove incredibly distracting if Sherlock was to get any thinking done. He also figured that going upstairs to rouse John from sleep would give him a good excuse to take another look at his room and finally have an answer.

* * *

The first thing that Sherlock heard when he slowly cracked John's door open was the sound of the poor doctor breathing heavy and kicking his legs absently under the sheets. He stepped in a little further and could see his friend with his face scrunched up as if in pain, and even if only for a split second, he wasn't sure what to do.

In the end he decided to inch further until he was at the side of the bed. He frowned, then tentatively reached out an arm, only to pull back away when John swung out and nearly clocked him one. Sherlock huffed in agitation and sat down on the edge of the bed instead.

John turned abruptly toward the wall, his back facing Sherlock, and shoved a hand underneath his pillow, and that's when Sherlock noticed it.

_John's flipped the pillow to hide the gun oil stains_

_John put his hand under his pillow almost instinctively _

_As if to reach for something—_

"John," Sherlock whispered carefully after the shorter man began to toss and turn again. "John," he repeated, a little louder.

Sherlock put a hand to John's shoulder and began to shake him lightly. "John wake up. Up, now, John!"

The ex-army doctor complied, and he jerked awake with a gasp, looking immediately to the detective looming over him. He sat up a bit and put a hand to his chest, panting uncomfortably.

"_Jesus_ Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he breathed.

"You were making noises."

"What?"

"I mean, are you alright?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, staring at John's moonlit frown.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, fine. Sorry."

"No, no, it's alright. I suppose I should ask if you'd like to talk about it?"

"Oh, not particularly no." John shook his head absently, "Did you um, figure anything out, then? Make any er, deductions while you were here, creepily watching me sleep?"

Sherlock snorted in laughter, then turned his gaze to John's pillow.

"How long?" he asked.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been sleeping with your gun underneath your pillow?"

John sighed, putting his face in his palm. "A few weeks. Ever since that Elbridge case."

"You're still not over that?"

"He _broke into our flat_, Sherlock. Pardon me for being the only prepared one of the two of us."

Suddenly Sherlock got up and opened the top drawer of John's nightstand to find the doctor's pistol resting safe and sound.

"You put your gun back in here after you shot the wall." Sherlock stated, as more of a question, as he closed the drawer and sat back down beside John.

"Look, if it'll help you get to sleep at night, I'll just tell you what happened, alright?"

Sherlock nodded. "Alright."

"Contrary to popular belief, I didn't shoot the wall on purpose." John started. He got up a little further and sat against the headboard. Sherlock mirrored him and stretched his limbs out next to his friend.

"I was having a nightmare." he continued, "I remember it too, pretty vividly, oddly enough."

Sherlock looked to him expectantly.

"It started how it usually does, Afghanistan. I was patching up a wounded soldier, you know? He was bleeding pretty bad, nasty wound to the side, and one in his leg. But you were there, Sherlock. In your big condescending coat and everything,"

The detective chuckled quietly.

"You kept shouting at me that I was doing it wrong, that I was missing everything of importance. Then you started rattling off deductions about the guy; his girlfriend was cheating on him, he had a dog named Crackers, all these random things."

John shuffled uncomfortably a bit and Sherlock nudged a hair closer.

"Then I looked up and we were in the morgue, staring at a body. I was trying to tell you something but you stormed out the doors anyway. When I opened the doors I was in an alleyway. And you, you were being held up by some maniac with a knife to your throat. It was dark and I couldn't really see, but I got out my pistol and aimed at the guy. You kept moving, though. Couldn't tell who the hell I was about to shoot. I fired anyway, and the last thing I remember thinking before waking up to the sound of a gunshot was that I didn't know which one of you I hit."

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock spoke up. "So, you actually fired your gun?" he asked quietly.

"Evidently, yes. Im surprised no one called the cops, s'pose they're used to your antics by now." John smiled bitterly.

For a minute the two just sat, and John stared down at his hands in his lap. "I mean can you imagine, just waking up with a gun in your hands? I was shaking, my ears hurt from the blast. The only thing I kept thinking was, was…"

"What, John?"

"What if you had come home? If you'd been trying to wake me and I—

"John," Suddenly Sherlock's hand was on John's shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"I could have, I mean I could've—"

"John, it's alright, you didn't shoot anyone." Sherlock reassured.

"Yeah but I bloody well could have. I had absolutely no recollection of my actions until the gunshot woke me up. And I could never forgive myself if I ever—"

"Please stop this, the only damage you've made is to the drywall, no flesh. You're okay, John." The detective tried to assure as he inched closer in an attempt to test the effectiveness of human contact when trying to comfort someone.

"I moved the furniture cause I couldn't look at the bloody hole in the wall. Didn't want you deducing—"

"Bit late for that." Sherlock interrupted.

"Well yeah. I was more comfortable showing you my scar because someone _else_ put a bullet there,"

"And that wall got a hole because _you_ put a bullet there, and it unnerves you to know that you can inflict damage unconsciously. But you needn't worry John, I'm sure I'll always be there in your dreams to tell you you're about to do something incredibly stupid."

John just grinned and laughed softly. He leaned into Sherlock's hand that had gone slack against his shoulder, and ended up resting his head on his flatmate's chest. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to argue anymore, and let the doctor seek comfort where he saw fit. For a while it was just the two of them breathing, and the detective even went so far as to snake an awkward arm around John's waist. He was beginning to fear that his shorter friend had fallen asleep on him when John spoke up again.

"Well, mystery solved, I suppose. Are you happy now?" he whispered.

"No." Sherlock admitted.

"Why not?"

"Because it caused you pain." He said simply.

"Oh? I thought you didn't care for er, things like that. People things. Feelings."

"I believe our relationship is rather different."

"How so?"

Sherlock laughed minutely. "Oh John, as usual you see but you do not observe. And you have missed everything of importance." He said as he held his friend tighter.

* * *

A/N: Well I hope you enjoyed, and if you've any suggestions or comments I'm always up for it :) Thanks for stopping by ^^


End file.
